The Mafia's Septuplets

“Hello grumpy. Goodbye sunshine.”

I was just trying to hem a suit, not end up pregnant with a mafia boss’s septuplets.

But here we are.

One minute I’m fending off a handsy client, the next a dangerously hot Russian in a ten-thousand-dollar jacket is growling at him to back off… and calling me his.

His name? Iskander Taranov. Six-foot-something of glacial power, lethal calm, and absolutely incredible abs. He’s the kind of man who could ruin your life and make you say thank you.

And he did ruin mine… kind of. Because when a rival mafia group launched a full-blown attack on my shop, I...

“Hello grumpy. Goodbye sunshine.”

I was just trying to hem a suit, not end up pregnant with a mafia boss’s septuplets.

But here we are.

One minute I’m fending off a handsy client, the next a dangerously hot Russian in a ten-thousand-dollar jacket is growling at him to back off… and calling me his.

His name? Iskander Taranov. Six-foot-something of glacial power, lethal calm, and absolutely incredible abs. He’s the kind of man who could ruin your life and make you say thank you.

And he did ruin mine… kind of. Because when a rival mafia group launched a full-blown attack on my shop, I got caught in the crossfire.

I woke up in Iskander’s mansion with a bodyguard, a burner phone, and a man who says I’m under his protection now.

Obviously, we kept it professional…

Until we didn’t.

One incredible night (or two), one lapse in judgment (or a few), and now…

I’m pregnant.

With septuplets.

That’s right.

Seven babies.

Call it a miracle or call it a disaster, just don’t call Mr. Perfect and tell him about it because it’s still a secret.

Now I’m hormonal and sleeping under the same roof as a mafia boss with “touch her and die” energy.

Hello grumpy. Goodbye sunshine.